aveled together. While they were stopping for
noon at a small hotel in the canyon, a rain storm came up, which delayed
them. They were not impatient, however, as the moisture was welcome; so
the farmers rested easily, letting their horses eat a little longer than
usual.

The conversation was such which should be expected of Bishop's
counselors, president of Elders' quorums, and class leaders in
the Mutual, which these men were. On this occasion some of the
always-present moral problems were discussed. Dorian was so quiet that
eventually some one called on him for an opinion.

"I don't think I can add anything to the discussion," replied Dorian.
"Only this, however: One day in Sunday school Uncle Zed painted the
terrors of sin to us boys in such colours that I shall never forget it.
The result in my case is that I have a dreadful fear of moral wrong
doing. I am literally scared, I--"

Dorian turned his eyes to the darkened doorway. Mr. Jack Lamont stood
there with a cynical expression on his face. His hat was tilted back on
his head, and a half-smoked cigarette sagged from his lips. The genial
warmth of the room seemed chilled by the newcomer's presence.

"G'day, gentlemen," said Mr. Lamont. "Mr. Trent, here, is afraid, I
understand."

The men arose. Outside the clouds were breaking. Dorian stepped forward,
quite close to Jack Lamont.

"Yes, I am afraid," said Dorian, his face white with passion, "but not
of what you think, not of what you would be afraid, you dirty, low,
scoundrel!"

Lamont raised a riding whip he had in his hand, but the men interfered,
and they all moved outside into the yard. Dorian, still tense with
anger, permitted himself to be taken to the teams where they began
hitching up. Dorian soon had himself under control, yet he was not
satisfied with the matter ending thus. Quietly slipping back to where
Mr. Lamont stood looking at the men preparing to drive on, he said, "I
want a word with you."

The other tried to evade.

"Don't try to get away until I'm through with you. I want to tell you
again what a contemptible cur you are. No one but a damned scoundrel
would take advantage of a girl as you did, and then leave her to bear
her shame alone."

"Do you mean Carlia--"

"Don't utter her name from your foul lips."

"For if you do, I might say, what have I got to do with that? You were
her lover, were you not? you were out with her in the fields many times
until midnight, you--"

The ac